Seasons of the Moon

by Julien Aranda

  I pushed the doorbell for a long time to be sure it would be heard up there. Nobody came down. I tried several times more, but still nothing. Somewhat annoyed, I concluded that the inhabitants had gone out and that we’d have to await their return. Marc, who didn’t want to spend all evening there, pressed the bottom bell to call the concierge. After a little while the front door opened and an old lady appeared. She looked us over warily. Marc spoke to her in German, explaining the situation. When he was done he handed her the photograph of the little German girl. Initially mistrustful, when she looked at the picture closely, her face lit up. She seemed both moved and troubled. “Catherine” she said sadly, looking up at us. I nodded, smiling at her. In a sad voice she explained, via Marc’s translation, that the Schäfer family hadn’t lived there since the end of the war. They had left for the Canary Islands, more specifically Las Palmas, on the island of Gran Canaria. Catherine’s mother had some friends there. Upon hearing of her husband’s death, she had taken herself and her daughter far away from the war and its painful aftermath. I stared at the old woman, shocked at this news, and asked her if she had an address in Las Palmas. She said she hadn’t, adding that she couldn’t help me any further. She wished me good luck and disappeared back into the building.

  I lowered my head in disappointment. Catherine hadn’t lived there for three years. The quick resolution I had hoped for now seemed impossibly distant. We returned to the car and drove back to Mainz, where, rather sadly, I thanked the innkeeper for his help and hospitality. He smiled at me sadly too, understanding my frustration, then bid us farewell.

  We reached Paris sometime in the wee hours of the morning. Later that day, Jean accompanied me to the Gare Montparnasse, where, two years earlier, I had arrived in the capital for the first time.

  “I guess this is where our paths diverge,” I said forlornly.

  “Yes,” he sighed, staring into space. “Thank you for everything, Paul, I’ll never forget what you did for me.”

  “It’s I who should be thanking you, my friend,” I replied, on the verge of tears.

  “I didn’t do much,” he said with a smile.

  “On the contrary. You know, this is the first time in my life that I’ve had a friend. A true friend, I mean, who listens to me and respects me for who I am. And for that I will always be grateful.”

  “One last thing before you leave.”

  “Yes?”

  He handed me an envelope. “Here.”

  “What’s that?”

  Jean smiled. “The key to the kingdom of your dreams. Open it on the train. Have a good journey and give my regards to Mathilde.”

  We stood there on the platform, two faithful friends. Time seemed to stand still, the hands of the station clock halted in their relentless progress. A pleasant yet subtle fragrance of deep fellowship and affability hung in the air. We were tied by the invisible thread of humanity that forever binds those who have stuck together through adversity. The last call for the departure to Rennes echoed down the platform. I hugged Jean one last time and turned to board the train.

  “Paul?”

  I looked back. “Yes?”

  “Don’t ever lose that bright smile of yours.”

  I nodded and he walked away.

  Thanks, Jean, I murmured to myself.

  Once the train was far from the gray buildings of the capital, I opened Jean’s letter.

  Dear Paul,

  By the time you read this letter, you will probably be far from the big city. Thank you again for everything you’ve done for me. I would have liked to have helped you more, to pick up the trail of Catherine, but there are many unforeseen events in life. Since I have not succeeded in helping you with this particular adventure, I hope I can assist you with another one. You once told me you dreamed of becoming a sailor, didn’t you? I enclose the address of a family friend in Bordeaux who has a shipping company. His name is Pierre Gentôme and he expects you. Go see him and he’ll give you a job. There we are. May this be the start of your adventures at sea, which you’ve dreamt about since you were a little boy. I hope to see you again one day, my friend.

  Fondly,

  Jean

  I folded the letter and slid it back in the envelope. Outside, the countryside slipped by—the many faces of France, its villages, fields, lakes, and rivers. A proud display ignored by the train as it sped past. In a few hours I would finally see Mathilde again, after waiting two long years. We would leave for Bordeaux together and I would go to sea. Destiny seemed to be smiling upon me for once. I didn’t want to miss the chance of bringing joy to the face of that child who had once stared in wonder at the massive iron vessel cruising toward the horizon.

  17

  The sweetest summer I ever had was in 1949. The sun never stopped shining in the Brittany sky. My beautiful Mathilde was overjoyed when she saw me step into the garden as she lay under her oak tree. She kissed me tenderly and held me tight. I thought of the poor German officer who hadn’t had such luck. Monsieur Blanchart, who was busy pruning his roses, also ran to greet me before discreetly stepping away so Mathilde and I could enjoy our reunion.

  We walked, hand in hand, down to the coast, wandered past the little port of Logéo and lay down on the sand beside a little creek facing the Île aux Moines. We kissed and kissed until dusk’s dark jaws swallowed us and all signs of human presence around us disappeared. That was the moment I knelt before her and asked for her hand. I had no ring or diamonds, but my eyes and my voice conveyed more than all the treasures of the world combined. She was quite startled at first and stared at me wide-eyed, not daring to utter the word that, once out of her mouth, would bind our two destinies for the rest of our lives. Then, having swiftly considered the consequences of such an answer, her face lit up. Her lips formed an O that became a whispered “Oui” that came straight from her heart, a oui to life and to love. Tears of emotion gathered in the corners of her eyes and streamed down her joyful face. I couldn’t hold back my own tears as I beheld my future wife weeping with joy. By that creek on the edge of the sea, I understood that we were now joined forever. I walked her back home, then took the dirt path lined with brambles to the Vertune farm.

  Nothing had changed there. When Mama saw me, she wrapped her arms around me and kissed me. As we held each other, I felt the intensity and depth of our relationship. Pierre and Guy got up from the table to greet me. They each hugged me, in the manner of brothers who love each other. I was surprised and touched by such a demonstration of affection. I looked at them, eyes wide, as if the sky had just fallen on my head. As for Jacques, he remained seated at the corner of the table, shoveling down food. He glanced up as I stepped into the kitchen.

  “So, have you become a man, then?” he asked ironically as I sat down.

  “Yes,” I replied proudly, “I have become a free man.”

  “Free? To return to the fields?”

  “I won’t be returning to the fields,” I declared, sure of myself.

  The clink of cutlery on plates suddenly ceased. Everyone turned to look at me, surprised, as if there were no alternative in life to that miserable toiling in the fields. My mother gazed at me sadly. Long before anyone else, she had seen the desire for emancipation that had filled my soul since birth. She knew that, sooner or later, I would leave the feathered nest of conformism to thrust myself into the uncertain arena of liberty. It was my choice and she would accept it.

  “And what will you do if you don’t return to the fields?” asked Jacques. “Beg on the street?”

  “No, I’m leaving for Bordeaux to go to sea. A friend has given me the contact of a shipping company there. I have always wanted to be a sailor, and I won’t let this chance pass me by.”

  “What about your family?” asked Jacques, disquieted to see that he no longer had any hold over me.

  “I’ll come back to see you now and then. I don’t want to spend my life picking up bundles of hay and scything wheat. I want to live as I wish, in my own way, that’s all.”
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  “Do as you like,” said Jacques, sensing that the die was cast.

  “There’s something else,” I said.

  “What now?” asked Jacques in irritation.

  “I’m going to marry Mathilde Blanchart.”

  Once again everyone stopped eating and stared at me, flabbergasted that the youngest of the family would be marrying, despite none of his older brothers having found a bride. Mama, in whom I had confided about Mathilde, congratulated me. All my sweet mother had ever wanted was my happiness. Had I gone to the ends of the earth to find it, leaving her behind, she would have put up with the distance in order to see me content, despite suffering terribly inside. Pierre and Guy got up to congratulate me too, although they were careful to mute the expression of joy on their faces. Jacques, his face full of jealousy, simply sat in his corner and muttered something incomprehensible. It was no longer him talking but my father, with all of his hatred—that same hatred he had passed on to my brother, who couldn’t break the paternal chains, so instead played the villain. Jacques had retreated deep inside himself, and all that showed on the surface were his bitterness and resentment. But it simply wasn’t my problem anymore.

  To my great surprise, Monsieur Blanchart was extremely happy to learn that Mathilde and I were to wed. He invited my entire family over, but Jacques didn’t come, too proud to share his brother’s happiness. Monsieur Blanchart liked me despite my belonging to a social class that was usually invisible to the moneyed types who pulled the strings of the economy. I think he had seen in my eyes the same spark of passion and love for Mathilde that he’d had for his late wife. He might not have said as much, but clearly he preferred to see the flesh of his flesh marry a man who resembled him rather than some cold, dour stranger. And although it clearly pained him when I explained my intention to go to Bordeaux to become a sailor, taking his daughter with me, he said nothing.

  We celebrated our marriage on Saturday, July 30, 1949. It was fiercely hot that day, and the men were all sweating buckets in their suits. The village church had been decorated with great care. My mother stood before the altar holding my hand, probably as nervous as the day she herself had gotten married in the same church, which had seen generation after generation of villagers joined in wedlock before God. Mathilde stood facing me. Through the veil covering her face, I sensed no trace of anxiety, only the deep serenity of having made the right choice, the certainty of galloping away on the right horse.

  “Mathilde Blanchart, do you take Paul Vertune to be your husband, for better and for worse, till death do you part?”

  “I do.”

  “Paul Vertune, do you take Mathilde Blanchart to be your wife, for better and for worse, till death do you part?”

  “I do.”

  Some prayers were said; some hymns, carefully chosen by my mother, were sung. We were now husband and wife before God and our assembled families. After the church service we gathered at the town hall, where it was Mathilde’s father’s turn, in his role as mayor, to join us for life in the eyes of the French state. Then the entire village gathered to celebrate our nuptials with one of those feasts to which only Bretons know the secret. Buffet tables groaned under the weight of local specialties, and cider flowed like water. There was music and traditional dancing, and the women twirled to the sound of nostalgia for times past. I grasped Mathilde’s waist and we danced before the guests, whirling like children in their secret garden hideaway, defying the uncertain future. We smiled at this new marital life of which we knew nothing but which appeared radiant and trouble-free. Youth has its virtues, which time patiently erodes without our realizing.

  We danced until our legs could carry us no more, then we crumpled exhausted on the ground, delighted, replete with love. As the festivities continued, we sneaked away to the deserted Vertune farm, where we shared a long kiss beneath the apple trees of my childhood. Finally we undressed, excited to discover each other’s bodies and to quench the desire that burned in our souls, eager to leave childhood behind and become adults. I penetrated Mathilde for the first time with infinite care. Her face suggested absolute confidence in my actions. She moaned with pleasure at my thrusting. The sky was clear, not a cloud in sight. The moon was a crescent, a heavenly smile delivered by the cosmos. Stars are not simply exploding suns, as scientists would have it, but the embers of extinguished love. They glow to remind us that, despite our lack of faith, the only thing that really counts is eternal, redeeming, sparkling love.

  18

  If life were a book, then Bordeaux would be a new, long chapter. The city seemed uninviting at first sight. The facades of the buildings along the river wore a thick blackish coat, as if soot had covered everything with its foul stain, marking the environment for centuries to come. The river Garonne bore a strange resemblance to the Seine in Paris: it had the same brown appearance, the same flow that seemed in a hurry to leave the city for brighter skies. There was the deafening racket of wine casks rolled across cobblestones, as heavy as the wheels of a gigantic cart, the shouts and chants of the warehousemen dexterously manipulating them, the sharp clacking of horses’ hooves on the ground, and the sirens of ships as they proudly drew alongside the quay. Mathilde and I were stunned by the commercial energy of this winemaking city, by its constant assault on our senses.

  Jean hadn’t been lying about his friend in Bordeaux, Pierre Gentôme. The man’s business was flourishing. His ships entered port packed full of commodities from overseas and set off again loaded with the products of the vineyards that filled the surrounding countryside. Monsieur Gentôme had been born and raised in Bordeaux. His family had been merchants for generations, and he was one of the most influential wine traders in the whole of the Aquitaine region. His well-respected family business dealt not only with the purchase of casks of wine from the most prestigious estates, but also handled their transportation to the port, the loading and unloading of the ships, and all of the related administrative obligations, documentation, and other formalities necessary for sale. It was a true commercial empire, managed with an iron fist by the short, bearded man I met one September afternoon in 1949.

  Pierre Gentôme showed no surprise when I handed him Jean’s letter. He read it and asked after Jean without seeking to find out any more about our friendship. Economic interest was clearly of more concern to this austere fellow than emotional connections. Like me, he had been raised by an authoritative father preoccupied with managing the family business. We were not so different from each other, despite our different social backgrounds—proof that money cannot replace parental love. He asked me if I knew how to read and write, then seemed surprised when I replied in the affirmative, as if it had never occurred to him that fate might have given me the chance to escape the constraints of my social status. He shrugged and handed me an administrative form to fill out, which I did meticulously. Monsieur Gentôme watched as I did so, no doubt to test the veracity of my claims. This embarrassed me. As the interview reached an end, he extended a limp hand and welcomed me to his company. I was given the job of a warehouseman, or stevedore, as everyone called it. He showed me around the premises and introduced me to several of his other employees, who greeted me with all the warmth that the working class reserves for a new colleague. Monsieur Gentôme explained that, like all novice stevedores, I would join the twenty-strong night shift led by a foreman who would show me the ropes. I was to start the next day. Then he headed back to his office, having devoted enough of his precious time to me.

  Not long after that, Mathilde and I set up home in a working-class district of Bordeaux, west of the Garonne River. It was a single-story house with a small garden where we grew a few fruits and vegetables. At first I was worried whether Mathilde would agree to such a modest dwelling, having lived in a huge farmhouse since she was a child, just she and her father. For my part, I was used to living in small quarters, having shared a room with three brothers. But Mathilde was delighted to be moving in with me, and wasn’t bothered by our humble abode, nipping all
my concerns in the bud. We concluded that the house was sufficiently large to contain the few possessions we had between us. Besides, our finances would not permit us to rent anything more spacious. “Let’s worry about comfort later,” we joked to each other. Besides, we really liked the neighborhood. It was mostly inhabited by laborers and stevedores who, like me, worked hard and unrelentingly to elevate the city of Bordeaux. We soon became friends with several local families.

  As the months passed, we got to know our new environment inside out, the particularities of the various shops and boutiques, and local customs and bigwigs. Mathilde developed a friendship with Joséphine, our next-door neighbor who was also the local baker. She introduced Mathilde to a family acquaintance, Madame de Saint-Maixent, an upper-middle-class lady from a family that had made its fortune trading luxury fabrics, and who idled away her lonely days in a house that was far too big for her. She hired Mathilde officially as a full-time seamstress, cleaner, and nanny to her children. Unofficially, Mathilde kept Madame de Saint-Maixent company, served her tea, read her the newspaper, patiently taught her needlework, and looked after her children with such kindness that she soon became indispensable to the family’s fragile equilibrium. My wife, as conscientious as her mother had been, worked hard and came home late in the evening, worn out from her long days but satisfied at having contributed to our income, even though Madame de Saint-Maixent paid her meanly for her good and faithful services.

  The first two years of our Bordeaux life flew past. By the time Mathilde came home in the evenings, it was time for me to leave for the docks, where I spent the night loading ships before returning home in the early morning, just as Mathilde was heading out to work. We saw very little of each other except on the weekend, when we were able to enjoy those privileged moments when life gives you a short respite.

  My job as a stevedore was exhausting. I hadn’t found it difficult at first—quite the opposite. Night work offered considerable advantages, such as being able to enjoy sunset and sunrise while the city slumbered. The pay was more than generous, and I got the whole weekend off. But what was really important to me, though most mortals would find it strange, was being able to contemplate my sweet moon up in the sky whenever I wished. The sight of it brought back so many memories of my childhood in the Brittany countryside, and it lifted my spirits on those nights when the port was thick with ships vying for our attention. For a while I was quite content with my lot—happy, even, despite the little time I got to spend with my wife.